Weekly Drabble Contest! Apples To Apples Cards!

Can you write a story in 100 words?The Rules:

  1. Write a drabble. A drabble is a 100-word story, with beginning, middle and end. A drabble can be any genre. Make it exactly 100 words. You can do it. That’s what adjectives and adverbs are for.
  2. Include each of the three Apples To Apples cards in the photo. All three. Not two. Not four. ALL THREE. New cards are chosen every week. And you can ignore the small words that explain it clearer. We just want the big three.
  3. Paste your drabble into the comments below. Then share this with your friends. The more comments you get on your entry, the more likely you are to win!
  4. Absolutely no links, screen shots or salesy type of behavior in the content entry. 
  5. Winners are chosen by the amount of positive response they get. Comments like, “This is great!” or “How funny!” or “Good job!” are the kinds of things that will be counted. Negative comments like, “this contest sucks” or “the rest of the entries are losers” or “WTF?” will be unapproved. The author of this blog reserves the right to ignore or block any content that is suspected of originating from trolls. In the event of a tie, winners will be chosen by this method. 
  6. Limit 3 entries per person. If you’re having fun, come back next Friday.
  7. This contest is open from 5:00 AM EST every Friday and closes down the following Sunday night at midnight. Comments are welcome throughout the week, but no more entries are allowed. 
  8. All entries must contain no profanity, no graphic violence or erotica, and no hate speech. Entries that do not abide by this rule will not be approved. Consistent abuse of this rule will warrant a blocked user.
  9. Winning entries will be announced on the 10 Minute Novelists Facebook group page the following Friday. The entry will also be published in the monthly digital newsletter, 10 Minute Novelists Insider. You can sign up for this here! 

Katharine Grubb is an author, poet, homeschooling mother, camping enthusiast, bread-baker, and believer in working in small increments of time. She leads 10 Minute Novelists, an international Facebook group of time-crunched writers. She lives with her family in Massachusetts.


  • Audrey Gran Weinberg

    Theresa always chose the off route gas stations.
    In her rented Buick sedan, she rolled down her window as a bedraggled teenaged kid approached the car. Her husband, Jack, was finishing up his Sudoku and didn’t look up. Her children, in the backseat, had fallen asleep.
    “Give me your orange juice,” the kid said.
    “Or what?” asked Theresa.
    The boy hesitated; his sweat was sharply scented and his face unwashed and sooty. He seemed oddly familiar. It was something about the triangular birthmark next to his ear.
    “Take it,” Theresa said, grabbing a juice box and thrusting it towards him.

  • Michel Daw

    We’d hit a half-dozen gas stations before we found one with fuel still in the tanks. Jones sent us into the convenience store to pick up some glass bottles and styrofoam plates. We just walked through the busted windows. The daylight didn’t quite reach the back of the store, so we avoided the darkest parts in case there were hungries. On our way out, I grabbed some tins of orange juice concentrate. Jones just shook his head. “Gas and styrofoam for napalm, not orange juice. Unless you want citrus scented zombie torches.” He snorted, and poured a little in anyway.

  • Michel Daw

    She would buy me orange juice every time. “A growin’ boy needs his vitamins,” she would say. And never junk food, only the healthiest stuff she could find in small stores near the gas stations. Back on the road again, for days, and weeks. I remember sunshine and singing with the radio. Her perfume was cheap dime store stuff, but it was her smell. “Momma,” I asked. “Why is daddy so angry at us?” She went quiet. “I don’t know, baby,” and she cried a little, then she drove again. Even today, anything scented with vanilla still makes me sad.

  • Michel Daw

    They called the twins “The Gas Stations.” Today was my chance to find out why. When we walked into the clubhouse our gang had built, they were sitting there next to each other, grinning like idiots. Around them were empty bottles of orange juice, and they were about to down another. I looked at Billy. “They’re intolerant,” he said. “They gonna puke?” I asked. “Nope,” Billy said, “Worse.” Then I heard the rumbling, followed by the loudest farts I’d ever heard. Let me tell you, they weren’t orange scented! We ran, eyes watering, coughing and laughing out of the cabin.

  • J. R. Nichols

    Each morning, Clyde passed four other gas stations in order to purchase his daily donut and orange juice from the most beautiful, most sweetly scented little redhead in the county, Miss Millie Maplethorpe. Standing before her each day, dollar ninety six in hand, he barely managed a “howdy do” as she scanned his juice and smiled sweetly up at him.
    One morning, a brooding brunette stood behind the counter. “Ain’t you heard?” her gruff voice chided, “Millie’s done died. Car wreck. Kilt both drivers.”
    Clyde sat in his car and cried for two hours. He never drank orange juice again.

  • Emberley

    He could hear the laughter of children. Appearing dazed, he glanced around his idle car.
    The orange juice stain in the back right window seat’s upholstery had never washed out. He could never bring himself to replace the fabric, though he told himself that he would soon. Soon, always soon. Just wait another week, just wait another month, just wait another year.
    Infinite gas stations visited, it felt like, infinite missing posters posted.
    The Carnival Cotton Candy™ scented pine tree hanging from his rear-view mirror had surely aged out of utility years ago. And it had been years, hadn’t it?

  • Brian Duxbury

    Josh screwed up his bag of fast food remains and tossed it onto the back seat. “This car stinks” he sniffed.
    “Get out then.” replied Rob, pulling in to the gas station.
    “I’ll buy you a flowery air freshener.”
    “Cheers buddy. You fill up. I need a leak. And you can get rid of your trash too.”
    Shoving the nozzle in, Josh leaned through the back window, catching the hose with his foot. It flipped out and sprayed everywhere.
    “Great.” deadpanned Rob on his return. “I wanted an orange juice scented car, now it smells of a gas station.”